


Lift You Up Over Everything

by luninosity



Series: Color in Everything [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: (in the sense of: Sebastian getting fucked so well he loses control), Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bottom Sebastian Stan, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hand Feeding, Light Bondage, M/M, Moving In Together, Naked Cuddling, Porn with Feelings, Sounding, True Love, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: Sebastian's agreed to move in. They celebrate. Thoroughly. In bed.
Relationships: Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan
Series: Color in Everything [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084541
Comments: 38
Kudos: 135





	Lift You Up Over Everything

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently this is my 300th fic on AO3! And also my last fic of 2020, just getting it in there! I feel like it's only fitting somehow that a fic milestone of mine involves tender loving kinky porn. :D 
> 
> This is even a little more kinky than my usual - the watersports kink isn't always my thing in fic, except every once in a very rare while it _can_ be my thing, when it's less about the actual, y'know, bodily fluid in question, and instead focused more on the power dynamics and the complete surrender and the loss of control and release...and I was going to write the sounding bit anyway, and then, well, this is just what came out. As it were. :D :D
> 
> This's technically a sequel to Color In The Picture, but they both can be read as stand-alone, really. 
> 
> Title from the Barenaked Ladies' "Light Up My Room." I don't really know why, except I was listening to that album, the song got into my head, and the mood of it somehow felt right - introspective, simple, devoted: _"...and if you question what I would do / to get over and be with you / lift you up over everything / to light up my room...."_

Sebastian, lounging amid pillows and blankets like a decadent and well-loved emperor, waits for Chris. The afternoon’s golden and chilly and kind; long indolent sunbeams idle across the floor and the bed. Sebastian’s naked under the blankets, and enjoying that fact.

Well. Mostly naked. He’s enjoying that part too.

Chris is out in the kitchen, singing—snatches of Disney tunes, lines from _Oliver and Company_ and _The Little Mermaid_ and _The Aristocats_ —and his voice fills up the air, cheerful in a way that makes Sebastian smile. Chris is this happy, this wholeheartedly joyously exuberant, because of him. He loves the knowing of that.

The happiness is because of them both, more accurately. Because Sebastian showed up here in Massachusetts two days ago, a romantic surprise after weeks apart. Because Chris asked him to move in, said _our house_ when talking about this place, promised they’d keep a New York apartment as well because Chris knows Sebastian loves the city. Because Sebastian said yes.

Sebastian will always say yes to Chris. That’s a fundamental truth. Maybe he’ll say _nah_ or _no, thanks_ or _not now, I’m busy_ about silly little things, red onion on a sandwich or moving when he’s comfortable napping on Chris’s broad chest, but about the big things, the underpinnings of the universe, the bass line of love against which every decision measures its cadence: about those, Sebastian will always say yes. If Chris wants something, asks for something, Sebastian will find a way to make it work.

He loves Chris Evans. That doesn’t make everything simple, but it does make most things easy. Priorities clear. Already chosen.

His body thrums pleasantly, anticipating.

He wiggles his left ankle. Smiles. _Mostly_ naked. Yes.

They don’t always get inventively kinky, but sometimes. When they’ve got the time and the space. When they’re not exhausted from filming or travel. When, say, they’ve agreed to take a step, to move in together, and they’re celebrating.

Chris _did_ promise to keep him in bed, naked, all day.

They’ve been doing that very successfully so far. The morning’s first round had been glorious, earthshattering, spectacular; Sebastian’s pretty sure that’s some sort of top ten in their sex adventures. Top five. Three. Maybe even one.

Chris had fussed over him after, held him and petted him and occasionally laughed aloud from sheer uncontainable happiness at the whole moving-in-together plan. They’d talked about making closet space, combining some bookshelves, moving over some of Sebastian’s favorite possessions like the James Dean candle-holder and his grandmother’s handwritten Romanian recipe collection. Sebastian doesn’t cook much, but Chris is decent in the kitchen; Chris doesn’t speak Romanian—though he’s learned a few useful phrases—but Sebastian can translate. Chris wants to try to make a few of those recipes for him; Sebastian, upon hearing that beloved voice say so, had actually been unable to talk for a minute or two, eyes alarmingly hot with emotion, memories of childhood flavors colliding with present-day overflowing adoration.

He'd thrown himself at Chris for some more kissing, instead of words. Chris had understood. Of course Chris had; Chris knows him so well. Better than anyone ever.

And Chris is still here. Choosing him. Wanting him. In every possible way.

Chris has in fact tied him to the bed, taking the words extremely literally. Has promised to make him come multiple times, and on Chris’s cock at least once, among that. Sebastian tips his head back into pillows. Grins up at Chris’s— _their_ —bedroom ceiling. It nods back in friendly pale colors and antique farmhouse wood stripes.

Chris is good with knots. Sebastian’s left ankle’s encircled by crimson rope, silky and thick and heavy and tied to the foot of the bed. He could probably undo it if he tried, with some time and patience; it’s just the one ankle, he’s got a lot of room to move around, and Chris wants him to feel it but doesn’t want him genuinely trapped while alone in a room.

Sebastian doesn’t want to undo it.

He loves this. Being here, being Chris’s: chosen and claimed and anchored and _kept_ , because Chris wants to keep him, somehow, amazingly. Sebastian’s so damn lucky, and happier than he’d ever known he could be, and ready to throw himself into everything with Chris, heart and body and soul.

He feels the shift and weight of the rope when he stretches out his leg. The sensation reminds him, paradoxically, of how very naked he is otherwise: naked and already well-used, fucked by Chris’s giant cock and by Chris’s fingers, working inside him. Before getting up, Chris had played with Sebastian’s nipples, and with his ass: slippery and stretched, fingers pumping in and out, keeping him full because Sebastian had murmured words about feeling empty and Chris wants him to feel good.

Chris hadn’t quite put the whole hand inside him—they’ve done that before, but not without a whole lot of prep, and while they’ve been enthusiastic for the past two days, it’d been a few weeks of _not_ sharing a bed, before now—but had pushed in two fingers, three, even four: teasing, not aiming to get Sebastian off again, but making his body open and surrender and give way, making him whine and squirm and rock himself back against the big warm nice feeling in his hole. Chris had wanted him opened up, had played with him, had kept him like that: stuffed full while Chris kept on talking about rearranging the closet and buying another dresser.

Sebastian, whimpering happily with each movement of Chris’s fingers, had tried to keep up. Teasing right back, asking about where to keep his scarves and whether they wanted any near the bed, feeling the sugar-sweet glowing fuzziness of the edges of subspace around his thoughts. Cotton candy and Chris’s hand working inside him, practical discussions of bookshelf-buying as sunbeams pooled in his veins and unraveled under his skin. Perfection.

Chris had tucked him in tenderly and thrown on clothes and gone to make sandwiches, eventually. Had paused to let Dodger out and run around for a few minutes, not long but enough to work off some energy. Sebastian adores Dodger—and Dodger’s parent, of course—and occasionally catches himself smiling at the thought: this is him, settling down with a man he loves and a dog and a renovated farmhouse in the country. This is him, Sebastian, goofy and ridiculous and awkward with compliments and still deep-down surprised that he might belong anywhere ever, being loved by Chris Evans. With crimson silky ropes and homemade sandwiches.

He tucks his face into a pillow. Half hiding pure delight, half breathing in the reality of it all; and the pillow fluffs up against his cheek reaffirmingly.

Footsteps approach; Chris is coming back. “Seb?”

“Didn’t miss you at all,” Sebastian announces, hastily emerging from his pillow-friend’s embrace. “Didn’t even notice you were gone. Avocado?”

“I know what you like.” Chris sits down beside him, balancing an oversized plate. Dressed in sweatpants and a worn grey t-shirt, hair rumpled and a few tattoos peeking out, he’s large and domestic and utterly perfect; Sebastian’s heart melts. “Avocado, tomato, shiitake bacon. No real bacon, sorry. Didn’t miss me at all, huh?”

“I don’t mind. I mean about the bacon! I like your weird mushroom version.” He actually does. And he knows Chris is sort of mostly vegetarian, or at least pescatarian, these days, at least as much as possible when navigating catered events and press tours. Sebastian himself adores pepperoni pizza and good spicy fried chicken too much to _completely_ give it all up, but he can minimize and compromise, and Chris always says it’s fine, Seb should be happy, and gives him that soft fond smile while saying so. Sebastian always gives in, the way he does for Chris, and lets himself be happy about indulgent food.

He adds, “You _do_ know what I like,” and bats his eyes for good measure, exaggerated and over the top. “Didn’t mean it. About not missing you.”

“Oh, I know.” Chris has sliced sandwiches into neat triangles, and picks one up. “I know you’re just bein’ a brat, sweetheart. Seeing what I’ll do. But deep down you wouldn’t mean that. You’re my sweet boy.”

And _that_ little speech, delivered in that calm assured Boston-history accent, goes straight to Sebastian’s cock and balls and stomach and head and chest. Every part of him gets shivery and pleased and hot. He wonders briefly if he might swoon, like an old-fashioned heroine. If so, Chris would catch him. He’s certain of that.

Chris pauses. “What’re you thinking?”

“That you’d catch me if I fainted in your arms. Is that—”

“If you what?”

“I’m not planning to!” He waves an arm. Narrowly avoids hitting Chris’s plate. “I’m awesome. It was just a thought. Weird random idea. I was asking if that was goat cheese. Feed me.”

“That was the plan, but now I’m worried you’re having circulation problems or something.” Chris isn’t very serious, mostly joking, but he does set the plate on the nightstand and shove some blankets aside. His hands are huge and competent and authoritative, moving through a sun-spear, finding Sebastian’s leg. They run unerringly along calf, ankle, the loop of heavy rope-reminder; Sebastian obligingly points his toes, wiggles them, shows off his ability to move.

“Love your toes,” Chris says absently, focusing on the task of care. “Not too tight?”

“Perfect. I love it. I’m yours, sir, keep me tied to the bed and ravish me until I can’t see straight. _After_ the avocado.”

“God, I love you.” Chris scoots back up, laughing, mostly at himself. “Sorry, I just, y’know. Gotta check.”

“You adore me,” Sebastian says lightly. “I get it.” He also cuddles up against Chris’s bulk and body heat, shamelessly. He’s still very naked—aside from the rope—and Chris runs warm. “Can we buy a paddle? For spanking me? And store it in a fancy decorative wardrobe?”

“Um,” Chris says. “Yes, yes, and we can talk about your furniture design choices. _You_ like antique candlesticks and green tables.”

“I’ll like whatever you want. I’m not irrevocably committed to the kinky Victorian aesthetic.”

“You and velvet and leather and decadent sofas.” Chris puts an arm around him. Picks up the sandwich again. “You know it’s gonna be your house too, right?”

“Ah…yes? I mean…sort of? I mean, yeah, I am totally moving in. You did ask me to.” The words have to emerge flippant. If they don’t, they’ll break apart with the immensity of it.

“I did.” Chris, both hands occupied, nudges Sebastian’s nose with his. Gets Sebastian to look at him, face to face. “You know I mean it. Ours, I said. Both of us. We’ll pick out something we both want, okay?”

“For storing our kinky sex toys,” Sebastian says, shaky but holding Chris’s gaze.

“Yep. Maybe a _little_ leather. Kinda like you in leather, sweet boy.”

Sebastian swallows. Hard.

“I love you,” Chris says. “I want you. You make everywhere feel like home. Just seeing you smile.” He’s built of earnest truth and blue eyes and sincerity. The dark scruff of his beard, the little dusting of faded freckles over his cheeks, the way he watches Sebastian’s expression: those all proclaim his heart.

He adds, “And I love seeing you in our bed, Seb, all tied up and naked and ready for me, so good, just like you want to be, the way you always are,” and Sebastian, who doesn’t bat an eye at discussing mild S&M in interviews, feels his face heat.

Chris’s eyebrows go up. “Really?”

“Shut up,” Sebastian mutters. “I don’t know why. The way you said it. Are you going to eat that sandwich or just wave your mushroom bacon at me?”

“Neither. Come here for a sec. And open your mouth.”

“Why—”

The sandwich half appears in front of his face. Sebastian obediently takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Looks up at Chris.

Chris smirks: wicked and assertive and the exact opposite of angelic, only not really the opposite at all, because Chris Evans is made of love and affection and adoration, wrapped up in a superhero-sized package and powered by a gigantic golden heart; and all of that, Sebastian decides, is pretty much what angels ought to be.

He takes another bite, because Chris wants him to. “Okay, so…you’re literally feeding me.”

“I’m feeding you.” Chris sets down the sandwich. Picks up a glass of water. “Taking care of you. Said I would.”

Sebastian takes a sip when Chris holds it to his lips. Then another. And another: Chris is doing it on purpose, he realizes, taking charge of what he eats and drinks, giving him what he needs.

God. Yes. A shiver of iridescent want bolts down his spine. His cock stiffens, aware.

Chris says softly, “I _am_ taking care of you, okay? Maybe only for now, today, like this…not all the time, like, daily, obviously not…but right now I want to, and you like it, don’t you? Letting me decide what you need, and how to give it to you. Here, eat some more.”

Sebastian does, a bit distracted and a lot turned on by the words, the tone, the assurance. The sandwich is delicious, lettuce crisp, avocado creamy, mushroom bacon not the real thing but good at being itself. The blankets and sheets are familiar and cozy, textures of flannel and wool brushing tingling skin. His ankle’s hyper-aware of the rope binding him to the bed, the rope that Chris tied around him. He’s somehow more present in his body than he’s ever been, and also distant, dreamy, dissolving into sensation and certainty. All the boundaries ebb and merge.

“Oh, Seb.” Chris sounds pleased. “Look at you.”

Sebastian tries not to blush, but can’t not drop his gaze. Chris says, still quiet, “No, come on, sweetheart, look at me, that’s right,” and Sebastian does, trembling with hopeless brimming-over want.

Chris says, “Good boy, Seb,” and Sebastian’s thoughts turn into floaty glittery sparkles, buoyed up and flying high on the praise.

Chris feeds him more, leisurely. Chris eats the other sandwich, also leisurely. They’re in no hurry; desire throbs and pulses like a shared heartbeat, but they’ve got all day. They’ve got each other. And this home.

Chris gives him more sips of water. Sebastian drinks, and leans against Chris, supported by Chris, steadied by Chris’s hands. The sunbeams travel across the floor, curious and approving.

After food, Chris coaxes Sebastian to lie down, head pillowed in Chris’s lap. Sebastian goes readily, full of glimmering drowsy contentment. He’s Chris’s. He wants to be where Chris puts him. He wants to be fucked by Chris again—and again—but there’s no immediacy to it. There’s only himself, flowing like old stained-glass windows, like rivers of light, under Chris’s command.

Chris reads to him for a while. Philosophy. About happiness. About having a good life. Sebastian lies peacefully in place, Chris’s hand in his hair, and lets the words glide over him.

After a while Chris’s hand gently guides Sebastian’s head to a different angle—to the bulge of his cock, so tantalizing and thick—and then tugs down his own sweatpants just enough. The length of it juts out, full and flushed hot, with that big head and those lovely veins, all textured and wonderful. Sebastian wants it in his mouth, in him; Chris directs his head, nudges him down, lets him take it and suck it and feel the whole massive weight of it as it fills up his mouth and rests over his tongue and pushes back into his throat.

He's so happy like this, Chris’s cock using his mouth and Chris’s hand stroking his hair, that he thinks he could come on the spot, untouched, kept naked while Chris is clothed. He could just collapse into a soundless soft orgasm right here, purely out of pleasure, and that would be all he’d need.

He doesn’t, because Chris hasn’t said he can. And that’s a pleasure too: piercing and profound in submission.

Chris’s hips move a little, not much, but enough to lift up into Sebastian’s mouth, to shove that wonderful cock deeper into Sebastian’s throat. Chris’s voice stutters, skips over a phrase, a word, and Chris tightens the hand in his hair, holding him in place.

Sebastian chokes on the sudden thrust, swallows around the girth, relaxes further into the flowing pool his thoughts’ve become. He can’t breathe as well like this, but he can, enough, and he likes that; he’s drooling a bit, mouth held open, but that’s okay. Chris keeps him there for a moment, then tugs his hair, pulling him up, though not completely off. Sebastian licks and mouths at Chris’s cock-head, heavy on his tongue.

Chris pets him in unneeded apology. “Too much?”

Sebastian shakes his head as much as he can. Chris sighs, amused. “You would say that. I think maybe it’s time you get some attention, though…being so good for me…time for a reward. Here—”

He eases Sebastian up more, heedless of small protesting whines. “I know you love sucking my cock, sweetheart. Keeping that pretty mouth full…” His thumb brushes Sebastian’s lips. Sebastian whimpers, craving.

“I did have something in mind. Tying you to the bed, we said…” Chris eases him down. Collects one of Sebastian’s arms, caressing him, arranging him. Then the other. Then both legs.

Sebastian lies limp and willing, watching Chris through a veil of gold-tinted desire. Everything’s honeyed, haloed, tipsy with surrender.

The first slide of the rope—more rope, more expensive woven scarlet heaviness—makes him moan. It feels like love, as Chris wraps it around his wrists, his other ankle. He ends up bound to the bed, on display, arousal blatant and upright. He can feel Chris gazing at him.

Chris trails a hand across him. “So gorgeous. So fuckin’ incredible, Seb. All of you, like this…for me…”

“For you,” Sebastian whispers, vows, swears to the sunshine and the ropes and the man he loves. “Yours.”

Chris’s hand pets his hip, so close but not touching the rigid straining line of his cock. He’s always grown wet easily, almost embarrassingly so: arousal copious and ready to overflow, especially like this, so turned on by dominance and claiming of him that he can’t think. Slickness beads up at the tip of his cock now, shining in the light. He knows Chris can see it; he makes a sound, a sob, a plea.

Chris stands up—Sebastian’s breath catches—but it’s only to strip off his own clothing, shirt and sweatpants; they land in a heap on the floor. Chris dives back to the bed. “Hey, sweet kid. Look at you. Look how much you want me…begging for it, aren’t you…needing me so bad…”

“Please,” Sebastian moans. “Please.”

Chris flicks a thumb over the hard dark pebble of his nipple. Every one of Chris’s motions, each flex of muscle and casual shift of strength, makes Sebastian’s cock twitch and dribble more.

Chris grins. Pinches his nipple. Hard.

Sebastian gasps in shocked delight, and then—as Chris doesn’t let up—moans and wails, eyes squeezing shut, tearing up. Chris keeps the pressure right at that point, and it begins to transform: diffusing, reaching out, threading ecstatic agony all through his body. It transmutes into harmony, a reverberating low endless note; he breathes out, sags against the bed, head rolling side to side.

Chris lets go. Sebastian cries out as sensations flood back, a whiplash of feeling that catapults him further under, and oh he loves it, he loves Chris, he needs Chris, he needs this and Chris always, always…

Chris plays with the other nipple too, alternating until they’re nothing but sharp points of shattering light at Sebastian’s chest. He’s begging, babbling, rambling slurred nonsense words, full of yes and please and Chris’s name.

Chris kisses his shoulder. Then his right nipple, gentle, almost an apology. Each lap of tongue is kind and soothing and also almost too intense, bathing the points of hurt.

Chris sits back up. “Seb?”

Sebastian realizes he’s gone quiet, no words for a while, only broken tiny breaths; Chris is checking in. He whispers, “Green.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He is. Very, very green. “Go on. Make me all yours…make me scream for you, make me come for you, please, Chris…in our bed.”

Chris says brightly, “I like the sound of that,” and reaches down to take Sebastian’s poor neglected cock into one big firm hand.

Sebastian cries, “ _Yes_ —!” and Chris grins and squeezes harder, Sebastian’s cock all his, in his control; Sebastian’s mouth just keeps spilling out the “Yes,” can’t stop saying it, can’t hold back. Yes, oh yes, he’s all Chris’s, Chris’s to play with and fondle and tap fingers against—not too hard, but enough for an impact—and use, yes, _please_.

He’s so wet, leaking all over himself and Chris’s hand. The drips are hot and slick, and Chris’s grip is tight and commanding; Sebastian whimpers, head tossing, glorying in the feeling. He’s so easy for Chris, forever has been; he can be vulnerable for Chris, because he knows Chris will take him apart with ecstasy but never ever hurt him.

Chris loves him. Sebastian loves Chris. And here, like this, he can be safe and small and protected, wholly given over to this care, knowing he’ll be cherished in every way he needs.

He mumbles something to that effect, or tries to. His voice comes out intoxicated, indistinct. Chris strokes his hip with the other hand. “Still good, sweetheart?”

Sebastian nods. He feels wonderful. The slip-slide of Chris’s hand on his cock feels wonderful, and the slick sounds are wonderful, the noises of himself getting all messy for Chris, knowing Chris can see and feel and hear how much Sebastian wants him, wants to belong to him. It’s all for Chris, complete and total, no space left for embarrassment at his own eagerness or the way his desire spills and smears and makes him filthy with it.

“My sweet boy.” Chris sweeps a thumb over Sebastian’s tip, coaxing more wet. He plays with the slit after, flirting, rubbing, even pushing the edge of his finger against the tiny opening as if wanting to sink inside. Sebastian sobs helplessly—the idea of that, and the sensation, God—and feels more fluid rush up and bubble over, more need wetting Chris’s hand and his own skin.

His hips shift and lift, unbidden. His eyes feel wet too. He’s panting, suspended between sensations.

“Love doing this with you.” Chris caresses his cock some more, evaluating, in charge and testing reactions. “Love how fuckin’ wet you get for me, wanting me so much…so ready, so desperate, aren’t you, Seb? My Sebastian, all opened up for me, needing me…”

“Please,” Sebastian begs. “Please, please…Chris…need you…please…” He’s barely even aware of shaping words. He needs more, more delicious maddening touches, so much and yet not enough…more of Chris’s hands fondling him, teasing him, bringing him right to the brink but not over…

He cries softly, shuddering all over, head lolling against the pillows. Chris says kindly, “Shh,” and loving fingertips brush tears from Sebastian’s cheeks. Sebastian turns into the touch, nuzzling, trying to kiss and mouth at Chris’s fingers. Chris permits this for a moment, two fingers pushing into Sebastian’s mouth as his hand remains at Sebastian’s cock. Sebastian’s mind goes blissfully blank, knowing nothing but the rightness washing over him, mouth full and hot shimmering feelings billowing up from between his thighs.

He pushes up with his hips, a tiny movement, instinctive. More glowing sparkly feelings ripple through him; he lets out an inadvertent moan around Chris’s fingers in his mouth. He’s drooling around them a lot, now, but that’s okay. Chris likes him wet and messy; Chris said so.

Chris murmurs, “So beautiful,” and his voice holds the hint of a crack like he’s crying, because Chris cries when seeing beautiful things, a rock or a waterfall or an autumn-kissed tree, and Sebastian’s teased him about it and kissed him for it and loved him for it, and right now Chris is gazing at Sebastian and seeing beauty.

Sebastian feels beautiful, feels beloved, when Chris looks at him like this.

“Such a sweet boy,” Chris says again. “Such a good boy, Seb. And all for me—all mine. How’d I get so fucking lucky?” His tone’s reverent, loving, amazed; his hand stops teasing Sebastian’s cock for a second, but only in order to find his balls, to cup them and roll them and even tug briefly for a flare of not-quite-pain, which makes Sebastian cry out in transcendent pleasure.

Chris walks fingertips back, rubs at delicate skin, finds Sebastian’s hole—where he’s still so loose and pliant—and plays with the rim, not pushing in but tracing the ring of puffy muscle. “So easy for me, aren’t you? You just open right up…you’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? You just want to give and give and give, all of you, just needing somebody to take care of you…”

“ _You_ ,” Sebastian explains, or attempts to, around Chris’s fingers in his mouth. His lips and chin are wet; he wonders dizzily what he looks like, what Chris sees. Cock red and over-sensitive and dripping from attentions, mouth open and drooling, hole pink and gleaming from lube plus Chris’s earlier climax and stretched from Chris’s fingers pumping in and out…all of him opened up and laid bare, an electric nerve, a sizzling wire, a lightning bolt kept on the edge of ecstasy, slippery and hot and obscene…

Chris laughs briefly, though the briefness holds an galaxy of emotion. “Me. You want me. You trust me to give you what you need, don’t you, sweet boy? Look at that pretty cock, so wet, so hungry…” His hand goes back to it: caressing the length, the shaft and tip, even trailing fingernails over Sebastian’s poor sensitized flesh. “Think maybe it needs a reward…something nice to fill it up…”

Sebastian, knowing what Chris means, sobs blindly, shaking, wrists and ankles tugging at their bonds. Yes, yes, please; and also no, he can’t take more, he’s already so close and so shattered by need, cock a thick heavy line of confused raw gold…but even as he thinks that, he’s moaning, trying futilely to spread his legs further, thrusting into Chris’s grip. His desire bubbles up and gushes all down himself, so wet, so eager, and he wants it, oh he wants it, he knows how it’ll feel and he wants Chris to fuck his cock, his hungry craving desperate cock, which just keeps getting filthier and messier for Chris.

Chris moves, stretches to find a specific bedside drawer, returns. Something cool brushes the head of Sebastian’s cock. “Look at it, sweetheart. Want you to see it—want you to watch, for me, while I give this what it needs. So you can see it all, the way you’re all mine, all of this.”

Light catches the slim metal of the sound, sliding along it like syrup and summer. It gleams with lube and with Sebastian’s own wetness, where Chris brushed it against him just a second ago. It’s a treasure and a promise and a dread; a dark velvet swirl of yearning and submission unfolds in his stomach and balls and loose fluttering hole. He can hear his own heartbeat, and he stares openmouthed at the toy, eyelids heavy and entranced.

Chris leans in closer. “Say red if you need to, okay? Just checkin’ in.”

Sebastian licks his lips. Manages, “Green,” the word drawn-out and languid over his tongue.

“Love you, Seb.”

“Love you…please fuck me, Chris…fuck my cock, like you said…promised…please, please, Chris…”

“Oh,” Chris says, excitement audible, “I will, baby, just like you want,” and the sound slips in, glides in, fills up Sebastian’s cock.

They’ve done this before but it’s new every time: the unnerving lurching shock of intrusion there, penetration into his tiny pulsing white-hot opening, rigid metal sliding down into him and stretching him, foreign and strange and glorious and electric. The presence sweeps any remaining thoughts away; Sebastian gazes at his shaft and the head, filled up by metal, bead visible at the tip, because Chris wants him to see it and because he wants to see it.

He belongs to Chris. His cock, dripping and red and stuffed full, belongs to Chris. His limbs, bound to the bed, belong to Chris. His whole body seems to swell and expand and ripple in something that feels like an infinite orgasm, an acceptance, a tensing and yielding in rhythmic waves.

His head falls back against the pillows. He’s twitching, spasming, small inadvertent bursts of anguished ecstasy. Chris’s voice soothes him; Chris’s hands caress him, steady him.

Chris murmurs, “You can take more, I think, can’t you, baby? This hungry cock of yours…it’s not gonna be satisfied with just that,” and the sound moves, it _moves_ and _stirs_ and Sebastian’s sobbing and coming, or trying to, a few clear hot drops squeezing out past the sound and making him wail.

Chris tells him, “Not yet,” and pulls, and the length slides out, rubbing along the searing inside of his cock. Liquid follows, climax right there in the wake; but then a different length pushes in, fatter and larger. A bigger version from the same set, Sebastian registers dimly. It opens him wider, fills him up again, sends crashing sparks through his body and his mind.

His mouth’s making incoherent broken sounds. His body jerks and quivers. It’s too much and too good, and he’s drowning in the fractured rainbow-hued edges of broken jewels, an onslaught of wild radiance. He can’t think, can’t process, can’t know anything except the sensation—

And Chris begins to fuck his cock, with love and exquisite care, with the sound.

In and out. Sliding. Moving. Claiming him, conquering him, taking him. Stretching that poor abused slit wide, watching the invasion, watching Sebastian’s body take it in. Chris whispers, “So good, Seb, you’re doing so good, taking it all,” and the love and pride washes over Sebastian’s thoughts like cleansing anointed gold.

He feels himself softening, growing languid, slack against the bed. His arms and legs are immeasurably weighty now, also soft but too hard to move. He wants to take it all for Chris. He wants to be good for Chris.

Everything in him submits. He surrenders, grows endless and molten and flowing. His mouth hangs open; his gaze is unfocused, blurry, though he can always find Chris’s shape. A thick blanketing pleasure throbs and floods all through him with each motion of metal, each caress of Chris’s hand against his skin. He’s being rocked by it: as if it’s both inside and out, sensations cradling him, becoming his world, all he knows.

“Oh, Seb,” Chris breathes, other hand stroking his hip, cupping his balls. “Oh, Seb—if you could see how you look, baby, you look so good, like you’re feeling so good, just feeling it all…that’s it, sweetheart, you just need to lie there and feel it, so sweet and soft…god, I love seein’ you like this, so happy, Seb, and I love you so damn much.” His hand pumps the sound in and out, making slick sloppy noises.

Sebastian _is_ so happy, so warm and full and contented. Everything feels so good, just like Chris said; he mumbles a few incoherent syllables, giggles a little, feels his fingers and toes curl with a jolt of pleasure. He loves this. He loves his cock being stuffed and fucked, he loves the rumble of Chris’s voice, he loves the nice supportive expanse of the bed and the drifting wisps of his thoughts and the waves of infinite plush sensations all through him.

Chris’s hand grips his cock. Caresses him from the outside. And the pleasure spikes, clear and bright as a dagger. “I’m gonna take this out, baby, and you’re gonna come for me, understand? I want to see you come for me, Seb.”

Sebastian’s bewildered, because surely he already is: he feels as if he’s coming, swept away and mindless with rapture. But Chris knows best, and Chris is telling him he’ll come some more, so he nods dazedly and trembles with the rush of capitulation.

“Good boy,” Chris says, and first nudges the sound deeper, so deep—Sebastian whimpers—and then draws it out, one swift sweeping motion, and strokes Sebastian’s cock hard with his hand.

White heat crashes over him. The lightning finally cracks and bursts and splits the sky. Sebastian’s crying out, body convulsing, cock trying to pour itself out—trying to pour out all of him, emptying him in a rush of fluid that sears and burns and feels so _good_ , a reprieve and a rapture all at once. It goes on and on, and he’s shaking in ceaseless spasms, feeling wetness as it lands all over his skin, feeling the tug of the bonds at his wrists and ankles—and that makes him shriek and shudder again, straight into another explosion of bliss. His cock-slit’s stretched so wide that every spurt sprays across him, and he feels it all because Chris has opened him up, has taken such good care of him, has given his hungry aching needy little cock exactly what it was craving.

He writhes and keens and quivers against the bed, unable to stay still. A few final splashes of release pool up and dribble out of him; he sobs.

Chris’s strong hand, which has been simply cradling his cock, moves. Strokes his length. Leaves almost unbearable sensation in its wake. Sebastian cries desperately but doesn’t ask Chris to stop, because he feels too good, he needs this, he needs to come apart and be put back together in Chris’s arms, with Chris’s love.

Chris grips him, holds him still, inspects Sebastian’s cock: the redness, the heat, the gaping dripping slit. Sebastian, gazing through half-focused eyes, feels the weight of Chris’s regard and his own wondrous dreadful capitulation; his body stirs weakly with joy.

Chris rubs a thumbtip over the slit, dragging weight across scorching loose flesh. Sebastian nearly screams but instead forgets to breathe, hanging between agony and ecstasy.

“My poor sweet boy.” Chris touches him again. “Does it hurt?”

Sebastian doesn’t know. Yes. No. More. Please. Use me. Fuck me. Hold me and talk to me while you fuck me, that huge perfect cock filling me up, your hand right where it is and your voice telling me I’m being good for you, I’m your good boy, you love me.

He can’t talk. He squirms, making Chris’s hand nudge against his cock more, setting off glittering fizzing flowers of fire.

“Seb.” Chris sounds mildly worried. “Come on, baby, that was a direct question. I know we said we were gonna push you, but you gotta be able to answer me. Just yes or no if you want, but give me something, okay? Are you hurting?”

Sebastian hesitates. The answer’s yes but he likes it; he doesn’t know how to shape words yet.

“Seb, please?” More worried now. Chris stops touching his cock, bends down over him: face to face, all concerned eyebrows and furrowed heroic love. “Come on, sweetheart, be good for me, answer me, you can do that.”

“…’m okay,” Sebastian finally attempts. His voice sounds odd. Small, drowsy, strained from exertion. “ ’s good.”

Chris’s expression eases, though not entirely. “God. Seb—okay, good, good boy. Thank you for answering.” He even uses one hand—not the messier one—to stroke back a loop of Sebastian’s hair, and then lingers: obviously wanting to touch. “But that wasn’t a yes or no to my question.”

“Yeah…but…” Sebastian tries to wave a hand; it flops against a pillow. “Kinda hard to think, like this…too good…”

“So you’re okay.”

“It’s a little…hurting…not too much.” He wants to reach for Chris; can’t. “Still good. Love you. Keep going.”

Chris, who can generally read Sebastian’s mind—not always, but more often than not—leans to drop a kiss in the middle of Sebastian’s palm. Then turns his head so Sebastian can cup his face, stroke his hair, for a second.

Sebastian, who loves Chris with all his heart, understands. He’ll be an anchor for Chris forever too.

“So,” Chris says, sitting back up. “Keep going, huh? You asking for more, then?”

“Please.” He’s begging _and_ reassuring Chris; the word chimes in his head, coaxing back fluffy bouncing clouds.

The sun’s lowering now, but the angle’s right for it to send streaks of glowing gold across the side of the bed, Sebastian’s foot and ankle, the deep scarlet coil of the rope. Chris’s body’s an artwork beside him: a study in ink and tenderness, love and broad shoulders, compassion and sandwiches fed to Sebastian by hand. Chris cares for the world, and Sebastian’s so lucky to be a part of Chris’s world, to bask in that care; he’s so happy to be here and to be Chris’s, so honored and so grateful and so determined to love Chris in turn, in every way he can.

The rush of pure fierce devotion makes his heart pick up, makes his eyes prickle. Heaped atop the radiant heights of submission and the thrumming of his body, the emotion’s so much, so strong.

“Hey.” Chris’s eyebrows do their familiar apprehensive tugging-together move. “Seb? You _sure_ you’re okay?”

“I,” Sebastian manages. “I love you. So fucking much.”

The eyebrows shoot up. Chris grins, though it’s covering up concern. “Good? Be kinda worried if you didn’t.”

“I do,” Sebastian tells him. “I love you, Chris.”

“I love you.” Chris lies down with him, up against him, not caring that Sebastian’s sticky with come and tears and drool and sweat; Chris runs a hand over him, gradual and deliberate, chest to stomach to hip. It’s another form of anchor, a familiar one mid-scene. Chris is always tactile, wanting to touch, wanting to know with his own hands how Sebastian feels. “Everything all right?”

“So good,” Sebastian whispers. “You’re good. I just…just wanted to…I wanted you to know. That I love you.”

“I know you do.” Chris pets him again, and again: repeated, slow, calming. Chris is also hard—Sebastian can feel his arousal, jutting between them—but is more concerned with care, at the moment; Sebastian’s heart expands and glows, warmed.

Chris adds, “Were you worried about that? You think I don’t know? Come on, Seb, you _know_ I know. Everything you do for me, everything you give me…I mean, hell, this…” One hand taps the rope around Sebastian’s closest wrist. “The way you just fucking… _trust_ me. With all of you. I can’t even—yeah, Seb, I know you love me. Like I love you.”

“I know,” Sebastian says. The sunlight’s warm across his foot. Chris is warm beside him. “Chris?”

“Yeah? What do you need? Anything.”

“You said you wanted to fuck me,” Sebastian reminds him, and wriggles against him. “You wanted to make me come at least three times, you said, and the last one would be from your cock, after I was already a mess, begging for it. For you.”

“Hmm.” But Chris is starting to smile; his fingers drum a quick rhythm over the rope. “Thought that _was_ three.”

“At least, you said. And also that might’ve been more. Felt like more.”

“Really? Huh.”

“You’re just that good.”

“Nice choice of tactics. Flattering me.”

“Only the truth. Is it working?” He’s pretty sure the answer’s yes; Chris has wrapped a hand around his wrist, over the rope, and now tightens the grip.

The rope bites into Sebastian’s arm. It sends wild welcome fireworks through him: yes, this, this is right.

“I get to decide what you get,” Chris informs him. “And _you_ get to be a good boy, Seb, and not argue.”

“Yes, Chris.” He waits just long enough: “…but please fuck me?”

Chris laughs, outright entertained now, muscles alive with giddy shared excitement. “That’s the plan. Trying to decide whether I want you untied.”

“Maybe just my legs? That’ll be—”

“Easier anyway. Got it.” Chris is moving while talking; crimson rope slithers away. Sebastian’s ankles miss the implacability of it, but that doesn’t matter: he’s got more knots restraining his arms, and the inarguable fortress of Chris’s devotion.

Chris swings a leg over him, straddles him, leans down to kiss him. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s deep and demanding, one hand in Sebastian’s hair, Chris’s tongue plundering Sebastian’s mouth, Chris’s mouth drifting to Sebastian’s collarbone and biting, sucking, leaving a scrape of beard. Sebastian lets himself sink into it: belonging so incontrovertibly to the man he loves.

His cock, exhausted as it is, twitches feebly. It’s sore but in a splendid way, and the reverberations hum along his spine. His hole clenches and flutters, knowing it’s about to get fucked by Chris’s massive dick. Chris is enormous—genuinely the biggest Sebastian’s ever seen or taken—and that always feels incredible: so huge inside him, splitting him open and making him surrender to it. Chris worries sometimes about being too large, and takes care with preparing him, every time. Right now, though, given the earlier workout and the languor of Sebastian’s body, it’ll be easy.

He shivers with anticipation at the thought. So easy, himself for Chris. For that large powerful cock inside him, stretching him so wide, drowning all his thoughts in ecstasy.

Chris draws back and sits up. He’s magnificent, kneeling above Sebastian’s bound and come-splashed body. “So gorgeous. My Sebastian.”

Sebastian’s cheeks flush. He loves praise, basks in it, has never been good at hearing it even in these moments. Chris knows that, of course.

Chris puts a hand on Sebastian’s chest. Flicks his left nipple. Hard. “Seb. You’re my good boy.”

Sebastian nods, quivering from the luscious bite of it.

“Say it.”

“I…Chris, I…”

“Say it, Seb.”

“I’m yours,” Sebastian whispers. “Your good boy. So good for you, Chris, I promise.” And as he says it he feels himself slip further under: into the space where this is the only truth, where he exists to be good for Chris and to be used by Chris and to be filled up by Chris, to answer when Chris asks him to, to shiver with the thrill of being so known and so loved, so very deeply.

“Good,” Chris says. “Good, Seb. I love you.” And the following tug at Sebastian’s nipple isn’t cruel, only an underscore.

Chris moves, then, repositioning: between Sebastian’s legs, lifting them, spreading them wider. Sebastian moans and shifts in response, pleading for more, for Chris. He knows his hole’s right there and visible, loose and pink from stretching and already showing the remnants of one thorough pounding and Chris’s release inside him. He can’t be bashful about it; he’s almost proud, an unfocused and slightly shy but very true sort of pride. Chris wants him like this, shameless and wanton, and Sebastian loves giving _his_ Chris everything he is.

Chris strokes a hand along his own length, an idle showing-off. Veins stand out; the head’s so fat and flushed and red that Sebastian’s mouth waters. He knows how it feels; he needs it.

Chris murmurs, “You need any more prep, sweet boy? You need some help, getting ready to take this?” and pushes a thumb against the rim of Sebastian’s hole. The muscle yields promptly, knowing Chris’s touch.

Sebastian feels tears at the corners of his eyes again, though he’s unsure why. It’s so intense—so everywhere, omnipresent, Chris’s caresses and Chris’s affection. He tries to push back against the thumb, mutely asking.

“Shh.” Chris pets his hole gently, skimming touches that don’t penetrate. “Maybe a little more lube, sweetheart…not gonna hurt you, only want to make you feel real good…make you come until you can’t even see straight, like you asked…all you have to do is take it, just lie here in bed and take it, just let me make you feel good, baby…” His fingers’ve conjured up some lube, cool as satin; they slip and glide over Sebastian’s burning skin.

“My sweet Seb.” Chris presses fingers in, two of them—no, three, large and practiced. They meet no real resistance, because Sebastian’s hole’s so open now, thanks to Chris’s efforts. And then they crook up, finding that spot with unerring precision.

Sebastian has no air left to make a sound, and simply arches up in his bonds, every muscle going taut. His cock stirs against his stomach, partially hard; it’s hot and hurting but the feeling’s perfect. A drop or two of need ekes out: infinitesimal and scorching.

Chris does it again. Sebastian shudders and twists blindly in place, mind lost in golden crackling static, hips jerking in an emptied-out sun-seared endless peak.

Chris’s hand shifts, adjusts. Something feels bigger: four fingers, or most of Chris’s hand, maybe, but Sebastian can’t process. Chris still doesn’t push the whole big hand into him, not this time: only makes him aware of the idea of it.

Sebastian comes again, or something like that, some upward pulse of the boundless sea, at the memory and the tease of it. His hole clenches, or attempts to, around the fingers keeping him full. His mouth’s hanging open, making low noises; his hands twist and sag against their restraints.

Chris slips the hand out and away, and pauses to fondle Sebastian’s cock one more time. It’s like a scream, such a raw sensation, as if all his nerves’ve been laid bare; it hurts but he loves it, needs it, craves it, is drunk on it. It’s a bright twinkling sort of pressure, unrelenting; his cock’s still so wet, so slick, dripping from his stretched slit, where he can’t hold anything back any more…how can he still be this wet, this slippery, for Chris, when he’s come and come and poured it all out…or maybe he’s never stopped coming, or maybe it’s a different kind of wet, a spilling-over release…maybe he _is_ wetting himself, all over Chris’s hand, and he can’t tell any longer because it’s all too good and too much and his cock keeps dribbling thin clear fluid all over and he’s twitching and crying out and he needs _more_.

Chris breathes his name, low and deep and reverent. A huge hot presence breaches Sebastian’s hole, sinking into him. That’s Chris, his Chris, and that’s Chris’s cock, so big and so right; Sebastian moans, mumbles no recognizable syllables in any language, feels heat spread all through him from the point where it’s entering his body.

He’s getting fucked now, by Chris. He’s rocked by each thrust, legs clumsy and uncoordinated as Chris pushes them up and back, yanking Sebastian closer, slamming in deeper. Harder. Again, again. Sebastian’s thoughts drain and fade into pure continuous ecstasy, everything around him and in him made of Chris: Chris’s weight, Chris’s massive cock claiming him, Chris’s groans, Chris’s ragged breaths. Yes. Yes. This. Please. Always, this, please.

His own cock, semi-hard, flops between them, bouncing in its own slickness. Chris groans again and wraps a hand around him, tugging at him. Sebastian’s crying freely now, lost in all-consuming pleasure that’s verging on pain, or maybe the other way around. Chris thrusts, battering that lightning-spark spot inside him, whole length and girth of that marvelous cock plunging into Sebastian’s hole. In and out. In and out.

Sebastian’s sobbing in frantic delirious bliss, so filled up by Chris and so well loved; his body seizes, tightens, goes almost limp with transcendent sensation. He’s coming again, coming and moaning and—and tipping over some edge, some last brink he hadn’t even known he had, all of him shuddering and jerking and flying apart. The sounds are so filthy, indescribably lewd and wet, because he’s so wet, cock spurting uncontrollably now, and he can’t tell if he’s coming or pissing himself, liquid rushing hot and slippery out of his burning stretched slit and everywhere. It goes on and on and it feels so _good_ , Chris’s hand rough against his overworked flesh, and he can’t stop any of it, can only tremble in endless spasm after spasm of release.

Chris outright growls—a deep possessive surge of noise—and fucks him even harder, if that’s possible: deeper, faster, groaning Seb’s name. “You—Jesus, Seb—oh, God, so fuckin’— _perfect_ —oh God _Seb_ —” And his hips snap forward, and his body stiffens: he comes on Sebastian’s name, with a rush of white-hot climax deep inside Sebastian’s body, adding to what he’s already put there. Sebastian feels it all, more heat and more slick-sticky wet there too; he sobs and squirms in incandescent happiness, as more of his own fluids dribble down from his aching messy cock-head.

He wants Chris to stay here forever; he feels luminous, weightless, fractured apart and made whole. Chris loves him, and Chris will take care of him. And Sebastian will come apart and let everything go, let it all spill out hot and helpless, because Chris wants him this way: so well fucked he’s lost all control, given all of himself up, and he’ll come over and over or piss himself from being fucked so hard and so long or both at once, unable to tell the difference any longer and loving it all, his body wholly Chris’s now, tremulous and surrendered and bound to their bed.

“Jesus…” Chris is breathless, braced on one arm, leaning down over him. A drop of sweat trickles along Chris’s hairline; Sebastian watches it drowsily. He wants to lick it. He wants to cry, or to giggle, or to have Chris keep him just this way, floating and shimmery and full of light.

“Sebastian,” Chris breathes this time. “That…you’re so…oh fuck yes…” His body shifts, cock dwindling but still hard enough to nudge against echoes of brilliance; he still has a hand gripping Sebastian’s cock, loosely, and he whispers, “So fucking hot, God, Seb…all mine, all fucking _mine_ , my good boy,” awe streaking his words like the setting sun, all ruby and indigo and topaz. His thumb, as if the motion’s unthinking and astonished, brushes the loose dripping ache of Sebastian’s cock-slit.

Sebastian cries out quietly, a barely audible tiny noise, and everything in his head goes dim and dark and unclear, lost in throbbing pulsating lovely anguish. He’s not aware of anything much after that.

He does catch some pieces. Fleeting impressions. Chris’s voice, saying his name. Chris’s touch: cupping his cheek, shaking him a little, checking his pulse. Motion against his wrists, and then between his legs and over his body, cleansing and soothing. He can’t think enough to know what that is.

He drifts in and out. Chris keeps saying his name, talking to him. Chris sounds concerned; Sebastian fades back in, head full of peaceful clouds, to Chris practically begging. “…Seb? Come on, baby, come on, I know that was good—that looked, like, _incredible_ , I mean, oh my _God_ —but please, sweetheart, I know you’re feeling pretty out of it, but you gotta come back, come back just a little, wake up for me, come on…”

Sebastian can’t move—every muscle’s turned to molten sugar, heavy and luscious and lethargic—and he’s having trouble focusing, but he makes himself blink at Chris. Awake. Sort of.

“Oh thank God.” Chris wraps a large arm around him, gathering him close. “Oh, Seb, come here….”

Sebastian curls all of his slow molten-sugar self into that offered bulwark. Chris feels so secure and so protective, a stalwart solid harbor; all at once Sebastian’s shivering, clinging, body confused about new waves of returning sensation. He’s exhausted and sore and profoundly satisfied, bones aching with contentment; he sobs a little, nuzzles his face into Chris’s chest, mouths aimlessly at Chris’s tattoo-ink. That feels nice, licking and suckling, not thinking anything at all, only tasting Chris’s heat. Chris’s hands stroke his hair and rub his back.

Gradually he becomes conscious enough to worry about stickiness and messiness and himself, and then—even more aware—he figures out that he’s more or less been cleaned up; they both have. Chris must’ve done that.

He wiggles his toes just because. They feel like sugar too. Caramelized and toasty.

He mumbles into Chris’s chest, “You feel so warm.” True. And helpful, since the sun’s mostly gone down and the evening’s getting chilly. Chris has gathered the blankets around them, though.

Chris kneads the back of his neck. “I’ll make a fire. Once you’re doing okay.”

“I am, I think.” He yawns. “Was that…that was…good? For you?” He’s not quite sure what he’s asking; he’s fairly sure Chris enjoyed himself, but something fragile and wistful inside his chest needs to hear the answer.

Chris’s hand stops, startled. “You didn’t notice?”

“I…well, yeah, I mean, of _course_ it was good, _I’m_ good, the way we like—”

“Seb.” Chris tugs at his hair, tips his head up: gets them nose to nose. Chris’s eyes’re heartbreakingly serious. “That was fucking _amazing_. Do we need to talk about it? Did you not like it?”

“I did. I feel…” He’d shrug, but he’s being thoroughly cuddled by anxious muscles. “Maybe we should. Not yet.”

“No.” Chris rubs the nape of Sebastian’s neck some more. “Kinda want to take care of you some more. Get you warmed up, maybe a bath, let you rest. I’ll handle dinner.”

“I’m fine,” Sebastian protests. He means it. Tired, starting to feel it—and he wonders what his cock must look like, reddened and tender, and his hole, gaping from Chris’s girth—and inclined to hide his face in Chris’s neck for a minute when he thinks about everything Chris just wrung out of his body, but.

He likes it. No: he loves it.

Chris must feel the honesty in his answer, because some tension lessens; Chris kisses his forehead. “I love you, Seb. My sweet boy. And that was…yeah, that was awesome. We have awesome sex. That’s just true.”

“I love having awesome sex with you,” Sebastian agrees. “I love you. Bath?”

“Yep. Come on.”

Chris’s house—their house, now, Sebastian drowsily reminds himself—has a positively sinful giant clawfoot tub, big enough for at _least_ two grown men to share; the shower’s big and comfortable too, but Chris clearly has a plan, and gets Sebastian’s wobbly self settled into steaming hot water, faintly herb-scented. The bathroom’s light and white and airy, accented with wood and thick rugs and plush towels; Sebastian’s always loved the openness, though just now he hisses at the lap of heat against sore flesh.

Chris, steadying him as he gets in, grips his arm more tightly. “You—”

“Fine. Just…sensitive.” He sinks down, settles, leans back against the tub. Water flows over his skin, calming, coaxing away strain. “Tired. Feels nice. Are you joining me?”

“Yeah. I just…” Chris glances down, laughs softly, doesn’t quite blush. “You look so…I just love you. So damn much.”

Sebastian yawns again, lazy and fulfilled, elated in a weary drained sort of way. “I know.”

Chris does get in with him, and takes proprietary charge of the bath: washing Sebastian’s hair, cleansing his skin, rinsing away any last traces of messy fluids. The water’s serene, fulfilling its purpose, like Sebastian himself; he’s content to let Chris support him, gather up his arms or his legs or his soft aching cock for cleaning and care. He whimpers inadvertently at the latter; Chris kisses him, apologizes, soothes him.

Sebastian lets himself float there in the bath, cherished and cradled. He nestles against Chris and kisses Chris’s collarbone, because that’s what he can reach; he traces a heart, lopsided, over Chris’s chest. Chris kisses him again, lips warm at Sebastian’s temple.

They stay like that for some time, basking in each other. The lights, turned on against the encroaching evening, glow. They’re warm too, amber and clean.

They both know that food will help with the aftermath, more anchors, more care: easing them both back into equilibrium. Chris gets a fire going in the bedroom fireplace, and decides that homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese should work—comfort food, hot, cozy—and Sebastian isn’t about to argue with that. The soup’s already made—the day before—so that’ll be quick.

Chris also puts him carefully back into bed, with some healing lotion applied to the sorest spots and with sheets and blankets piled atop him—new sheets, Sebastian notices; somewhere in the flurry of clean-up, Chris must’ve handled that—and then says aloud, “I’m just gonna be a few minutes, I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be back with food, I promise.”

Sebastian, continuing to feel like liquid caramel but more conscious now, manages to raise both eyebrows at him. “I trust you not to run off and leave me, Chris.”

Chris laughs but throws in a rueful head-tip. “I know. I just, y’know, sometimes…you need…but we’re okay.”

Sebastian knows. It’s a submissive thing, and even more so a him thing: he’s never wanted to be left alone, after. He tends to get cuddly. Even clingy. Wanting to know that he’s been good, that someone wants to stay, that they want to be with him.

He’d once upon a time been more shy about asking for that, not wanting to be a burden; these days he knows Chris doesn’t mind, even likes it. It’s something else Chris can provide, an affirmation for him, for them both. Chris loves knowing he’s done that, Sebastian knows.

One time—exactly one, very early on, the first time they’d ever done anything decently intense at Sebastian’s place in New York—Chris had thought Sebastian was asleep, which was mostly true, and had gotten up to find water and some food, started looking up the best foods for a submissive partner in need of aftercare, given up on Sebastian’s cupboards and ended up making a grocery delivery order, and not returned to bed for a good thirty minutes. Sebastian had woken up to find himself alone in his bed, no sign of tattoo-ink or rippling muscles. He’d started trembling, subdrop hitting hard and fast, both physically and emotionally, leaving him cold and scared and spiraling into self-doubt about _not_ having been good enough, scaring Chris off, being too needy or too ridiculous or not what Chris wanted after all, if Chris couldn’t stay.

Chris had run back into the bedroom, apologizing for taking too long, footsteps loud and frantic on the floor. Had gone pale with horror, lunging across the bed to gather a sobbing ball of Sebastian into his arms.

They’d been okay then too, after a while. After a whole lot of reassurance, some tears on both sides, and promises about next time and the time after that.

Chris doesn’t leave him without specifically explaining what’s about to happen; Chris doesn’t leave him, not really. Sebastian curls up more snugly under thick knit blankets and the heap of striped comforter and the clean sheets, contented.

Chris asked him to move in. Chris wants him here.

Chris loves him.

His entire body hurts with happiness, too immense and poignant to contain.

Chris comes back with soup, grilled cheese, and Dodger, who takes one look at them and flops gleefully across the foot of the bed, clearly assuming his people need some love. He’s not wrong; Sebastian extricates a hand from blankets for puppy-scratching duties, and notices that the hand, and in fact his whole arm, is somewhat shaky.

Chris notices too. “Shit. Knew you weren’t okay. Sorry, sorry, what did I—I mean, if you know why—I _knew_ it was too much, and I shouldn’t’ve left you, just now—”

“I’m all right. I think it’s just physical. Reactions. Kinda tired.” He genuinely is exhausted. In a good way—in all sorts of good ways—but maybe more so than he’d thought. Wrung out, in so many senses. They probably _should_ talk about that, but he’s still working through his own reactions. “Just…hold me for a minute.”

Chris immediately shoves all the food onto the bedside table and flings both arms and legs around him, gathering him close. “Like this? Tighter?”

“Tighter,” Sebastian whispers, and feels Chris squeeze him so hard he thinks the love must be imprinted on his bones.

Chris holds him, holds onto him, talks to him. Tells him he’s wonderful, incredible, perfect. Sebastian shakes his head slightly; Chris gets the unsaid words and retorts, voice a deep battering ram of conviction against Sebastian’s self-doubt, “You’re perfect for _me_ , Seb, you’re everything I’ve ever fucking wanted, I don’t _care_ that you can’t cook and you steal blankets in your sleep, I love being your blanket,” and kisses the top of his head.

“Better,” Sebastian murmurs, “I love you being my blanket too,” and exhales, making them both relax. “Okay. Thanks. I needed that.”

“ _I_ get to think you’re perfect,” Chris proclaims loyally, “even when you don’t. But you are, y’know—you’re _good_ , Sebastian. You are. You and your cold toes. Why’re your toes cold? Come here—” and he’s trying to warm Sebastian’s feet with his own, and they’re both laughing now, entangled, secure.

Chris ends up feeding him again, less outright erotic this time and more comforting, fretting over him, not wanting him to do too much. They trade smiles, nudges, naked cuddles up against each other; they’re quiet, mostly. No need for too many words yet. Basking in the nearness.

The evening deepens, extends, spreads a hush over the world. The sky’s dark blue and star-spangled; inside, this bedroom, their bedroom, becomes an oasis of light and heat. A fire in the hearth. A dozing puppy. Warmed-up toes. A home.

Sebastian’s the one who gives in, finally, because he knows Chris won’t push for him to talk if he’s not ready. “So…that last part…”

“Um.” Chris bites his lip. He’s leaning back against the headboard, Sebastian propped up against him, in the circle of his arms. “Okay, so, first, I kinda…was and wasn’t expecting…I mean, you always get so wet, anyway, and I know about, um, overstimulation, and we sometimes kinda, um…”

“We’ve played around the edges of it,” Sebastian fills in. “You like me all wet and messy and not in control, just letting myself feel everything, letting go, kinda. And, I mean, with the whole…sounding, with the way I’m all…opened up…and it was so much, so intense…”

“And you just…” Chris detaches a hand to wave; puts it back. “Well, like you said. Lost control.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says, “you fucked me until I…actually I don’t even know. I couldn’t tell. It was like I was coming, except, y’know. That and more.” He’d try to gesture for clarification, but he’s comfortable and disinclined to move. Chris knows what he means, anyway: Chris fucked him until he was sobbing, drooling, pissing himself, and coming, orgasms spilling over and over in the mindless rapturous infinity of subspace. All of that. “All over myself, your hand on me, and I couldn’t not…let go…but it felt good, I think? I liked you making me…give you everything, like that, even that. Like a _good_ kind of release. But it was, like, a _lot_. But I liked it. So I don’t know.”

“Huh.”

“I mean, I’m not gonna say it’s an all the time thing. Or even most times. Ninety-nine percent of times. But maybe…one in a hundred.”

“Hmm,” Chris says.

“What?”

“I…” Chris is the one who blushes, this time. “I, um. Kinda was into it. If you couldn’t tell.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t…something kinda seriously hot about knowing I fucked you that good, sweet kid.” He’s still pink-eared, but he’s serious, too: Sebastian can see it, can hear it. The _sweet kid_ endearment emerges unremarked, like Chris hasn’t even noticed he’s said it; Sebastian lets it go, though normally at this point he’d roll his eyes or poke Chris in the ribs. He’s too happy, and too interested in what Chris says next.

What Chris says next is, “I was also kinda worried about you—I mean how you’d feel, after. If you’d be upset. If you even realized. You looked like you were feeling…honestly, pretty far under, I could tell you were, about as deep as I’ve ever seen you get…but also like you were feeling really fucking awesome, y’know?”

“I was.” He stretches up to kiss Chris, quick and devout. “I am. So…you were into it.”

“Guess I am. That okay with you? Or—not, if you were thinking, like, basically never. One in a hundred, you said.”

“Oh, well,” Sebastian says. “I _did_ say I liked it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to say yes.”

“I am, though. Not all the time, and maybe we talk about it first, so I know what you’ve got in mind for me…” He wiggles suggestive eyebrows; earns a sputter of laughter. That makes him tingle with pride: he’s made Chris laugh. “But yeah. I’m up for that.”

“Seriously?”

“You wanted a big debate about it? You liked it, I liked it, we should invest in more sheets, we’re good.”

“More sheets,” Chris echoes, and stops. His eyes are shining: blue as oceans, fond as listening stars. He holds on a fraction tighter, and then blinks a few times: tears, Sebastian understands abruptly.

He bolts up. Touches Chris’s cheek. “Are _you_ okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Chris says. “Nothing, I—I’m not crying.”

But he is. “You are. Why? What did I say? How can I help?”

“Seb,” Chris breathes, shaking his head, starting to smile; he turns his head to kiss Sebastian’s hand, where it’s cupping his face and trying to brush away water-tracks. “Sebastian. The sheets.”

“Okay,” Sebastian says, “kinda lost here, you have deep emotional connections to the idea of buying sheets?” and hopes that Chris will laugh more, because Chris should always be laughing.

Chris does. It’s the best sound in existence. Sebastian wants to hear it for the rest of his life. “God, I fucking love you. Have I told you that enough?”

“I like hearing it. Should I be prepared to knife-fight some vicious high thread count bedding to protect you, if we go shopping?”

“You said it again!”

“Chris,” Sebastian attempts plaintively, “you know how I’m really easily confused about, like, everything? You’re gonna need to help me out with this.”

“We,” Chris says, no longer quite laughing, but radiant with the emotion. The glow of it’s in his hair, his face, his lips, his hands when he catches Sebastian’s own. “We, you said. Buying more sheets. Going shopping. For _our_ bed.”

“For—” He stops. Thinks: yes. So much yes, forever, with you. “I _am_ moving in. Into our house. And we’ll need more sheets. And more kinky sex toy storage. Both here and in New York, because that’s ours too.”

“Ours,” Chris says. “Yes. Yes, Seb, yes.”

“I want everything,” Sebastian tells him, promises him, swears to him: heart and self in the words, believing them down to his bones, where they’re laced through the core of him. They’re true as gold, and the heavy coiled rope at the side of the bed, and the lingering taste of tomato soup, and the grip of Chris’s hands around his. “I want to come home with you, and be with you, and have your family over for dinner—I know, I know, I’ll do the dishes if you do the cooking—and I want to try everything with you. Including the kinky sex. Which, yeah, more, please. Not now, I mean. Later. Tomorrow. The day after. All the days, Chris, everything. I love you. I’m yours.”

“Everything,” Chris whispers back, “everything we want, you’re mine, Seb, and I’m yours, this is ours, you and me,” and his hands are warm and sure, and his lips are warm and sure when they meet Sebastian’s, and the blanket’s warm and sure around them.

The crimson tantalization of rope glints up at them with approval from its heap. Dodger rolls over and lets out a puppy-sigh of satisfaction at their feet. And the future unfolds before them in a sprawl of sheet-related adventures, clear and bright and beckoning them on.

**Author's Note:**

>  _If_ there's ever a part three - no promises! - it's obviously about a) them sort of quietly going public with this, not like holding a press conference but also not bothering to hide anything anymore, holding hands on a date, going book-shopping together, etc; and b) kink involving breathplay.


End file.
